My sweet Evelyn.

This is a serious post.

Believe me – I want to write about the funny things my kids said. I want to write about our latest family photo shoot. I want to write about my latest pumpkin carving ideas. I want to write about the pajama argument Scott and I had.

But I can’t write.

My whole world has been put on pause.

There was an accident on Sunday morning. My 7-month-old niece, Evelyn, suffered severe head trauma. My sister, Evelyn’s mom, slipped on the stairs while holding her. Although Jenna held on to Evelyn, Evelyn’s head slammed on the tile floor. She was bleeding on the brain. Evelyn was airlifted to a local children’s hospital.

I met my sister and her husband at the hospital.

I didn’t want to. Not for Evelyn. Not my sweet baby Evelyn.

I didn’t want to wake up Emma that morning so I could drop her and Kate off at the neighbors. I knew Emma would ask why.

I didn’t want to put the hospital in the navigation system because I knew it would show the medical cross from the aerial setting. My niece would soon be landing on that cross in a helicopter.

I didn’t want to look at my sister. I would see every mother’s worst fear in my own sister’s eyes. I just wanted to hug her and say nothing.

I didn’t want the hospital staff to be personally waiting on us in the world’s nicest waiting room. That meant we were special. I didn’t want to be special. I just wanted a normal waiting room with coughing kids.

I didn’t want my mom telling me that my other sister, Jessica, was driving into town. It was a Sunday. Jessica isn’t supposed to be in town on a work night.

I didn’t want to be updating Scott on the niece he calls “little Stevie” while he was out-of-town on business. I was supposed to be at home updating Scott on Emma and Kate’s fighting battles.

I didn’t want to look at my phone and see over 100 notifications on my personal Facebook account. I didn’t like telling the masses of Facebook that my niece was having emergency brain surgery. But the only control I had over the situation was to get everyone I knew praying or thinking about Evelyn – and quickly. I needed a greater force in that room next to me. I needed it centered on top of that tiny, blonde-haired head on that operating table.

After 4 hours of surgery, the bleeding on Evelyn’s brain was stopped. The pressure on her brain was relieved. Donated blood was given to her. The neurosurgeon’s hands worked. The praying worked. The good vibes worked.

My family and I thank you. So, so much.

The next 24 hours are critical – the doctors are watching for blood clots. Evelyn’s condition is currently stable. She is healing as expected after a head trauma surgery.

Evelyn.

Squeezing my finger after surgery. Showing her Aunt Jules how tough she is.

I don’t want to be writing about this.

I want to hit fast forward. I want to be writing about 5-year-old Evelyn. I want to write about Evelyn telling me about her really cool scar on top of her head. It’s shaped like the moon, Aunt Jules! Here, move all of this blonde hair and look! 

39 thoughts on “My sweet Evelyn.

  1. Oh Julie, this breaks my heart. I’ve seen too many accidents in my life. Kids are tough though and I’m sure your baby niece is gonna fight to be just like she was before. I’m sending Jesus a message to make it so right now! Bless you and your family.

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  2. Praying with all my might. Sending lots of loving, calming, healing vibes to you and your family and asking the angels to watch over one of their own. Hang in there Aunt Jules!

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  3. Just slid over from Don’s blog. My heart is sad. Wee ones aren’t supposed to have to go through these things. Keeping good thoughts for little Evelyn, you and your whole family. Hang in there. {{hugs}}

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  4. dusterbed says:

    Kids are super tough, and so are you and your family! You’ll all get through this ❤ Sending the best 'good vibrations' from Canada

    Like

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